Leopold Mozart for a long time stubbornly withheld his consent to the marriage; but at last, overborne by his son’s persistence and by the intercession of friends, he gave the pair a reluctant blessing. They were married August 4, 1782. The sequel proved that both father and son were justified in their opinions. The Mozart ménage was truly most erratic. Husband and wife were equally improvident and unmethodical. They were always poor, frequently in actual want. On the other hand, as Wolfgang had hoped, Constanze’s virtues as a comrade compensated for her deficiencies as a housekeeper, and their congeniality of temperament made them contented in the midst of disorder, poverty, and care. There is a story that a friend, calling on them one cold winter morning, found them waltzing together, and was told that, as they had no fuel, they were keeping warm in that way. The incident is typical of their existence--irresponsible, haphazard, and yet on the whole happy. The remaining events of Mozart’s short life, from his marriage in 1782 to his death in 1791, were all artistic events--works composed--standing out luminous against a dark background of poverty, struggle, and pain. His three great operas were written during this time. “The Marriage of Figaro” was first produced at Vienna in 1786; “Don Giovanni” at Prague, in 1787; and “The Magic Flute” at Vienna, in the year of Mozart’s death. In the realm of absolute music Mozart was equally productive all through this period. The six great string quartets dedicated to Haydn date from 1782, 1783, and 1784. The three quartets written for Frederick William II of Prussia were composed in the spring of 1790. The four greatest string quintets were written in 1787, 1790, and 1791. Finally, the three finest and maturest symphonies, works which will endure as long as music does, were all written within two months in the summer of 1788. His last work was the famous Requiem, begun in July, 1791. His strong constitution was now beginning to give way under the long strain of poverty and unceasing mental labor, and he gradually became haunted by the idea that he was writing this Requiem for himself. He grew morbid and gloomy, but continued to work with feverish energy. The last evening of his life he looked at his unfinished score with tears in his eyes, saying, “Did I not say I was writing the Requiem for myself?” And later, when he became delirious, he was still busy with the Requiem, imagining it played, and blowing out his cheeks to imitate the trumpets. He died quietly on the evening of December 5, 1791, having accomplished an enduring work in thirty-five laborious, brilliant, and painful years.